The cold spring river took him silently, leaving no cry, no splash, no explanation. When Alexander, Alina’s father, drowned, the village talked of nothing but the absurdity and cruelty of fate. An avid, experienced fisherman who knew the water like the back of his hand—and then such a senseless death. Some whispered he had slipped on the slick bridge under which there was a bottomless whirlpool. Others swore they’d seen his boat empty; later it washed up along the reed-grown bank, as if the river, sated, had spat out a shell it no longer needed.
Alina was twelve then. Her father’s funeral drifted past like a blurred, soundproof stain: black kerchiefs, strangers’ laments, rough hands gripping her shoulders. But her father himself remained alive and vivid in her memory: his laughter that smelled of sun and wind, the strong arms that tossed her up to the very sky, and the secret handshake they exchanged when her mother wasn’t looking. He adored his only daughter, his “little mermaid.”
Afterward she and her mother, Vera, were left alone together. They lived modestly but didn’t starve: a cow named Zorka, a vegetable patch, neighbors’ help. The village closed ranks in misfortune: the men mowed grass for them together, raked the fragrant hay and pitched it up into the high hayloft under the roof. Alina studied diligently, devouring books greedily. She dreamed of breaking out of that slow world that smelled of smoke and manure, of getting into a city college, of becoming someone. Her mother, worn out by endless fields and milking shifts, only encouraged her:
— Of course, daughter, fly, study. I was born here, I lived here, and my bones will stay here. But you young ones have a different road now. The city draws you, and that’s right.
Alina was finishing the ninth grade when a new blow fell. Her mother Vera, bent over a washtub of laundry, suddenly froze and quietly, without any panic, said, “Daughter, I can’t…” She was paralyzed. The right side of her body became an alien, disobedient weight. After the hospital they brought her home, and she never rose again. Dreams of college melted like smoke over the morning river. Alina couldn’t leave her mother. There was no one else. She became nurse, caregiver, breadwinner, putting her grade book away in the darkest corner of the dresser.
Their neighbor, Aunt Anna, tried to persuade her:
— Alina, I’ll look after Vera! Go, apply! Otherwise you’ll bury your dreams here forever. You wanted to leave so much!
But Alina shook her head. She couldn’t. Another’s care, even the kindest, felt like betrayal. She had to carry this cross herself. Two long years passed in an endless chain of injections, medicines, changing linens, and quiet, one-sided conversations. And then her mother slipped away softly, as if a candle had burned down to the end. The neighbors gathered again, helped with the funeral, the wake, the quiet grief.
Then came the emptiness. Bitter, ringing. It was spring, the very same that had taken her father. Moved by some inner impulse, Alina washed every window until it was crystal clear, scrubbed the floors, shook out the rugs. She hung new calico curtains with bright flowers. The house shone, filled with light, but that only made it feel more painful and empty. She was scrubbing the porch when the gate creaked.
On the threshold stood Artyom, a local lad who had finished his army service and liked to tell, with great flourish—especially after a couple of shots—stories about it. He had liked Alina for a long time—quiet, serious, unlike the others. But she never went to the dances at the club, preferring the library’s hush or her own room.
— Hi, Alina, — he said, taking off his cap. — I decided to check on you. Now that your mother… well, you know. You must have a lot of free time. Maybe we could go to the club? They’ve brought a new film. I’ll stop by around seven? — He wasn’t so much asking as pleading; real hope shone in his eyes.
Alina worked as a clerk at the village administration. They valued her mind and reliability, piling on a mountain of duties, but she coped, pulled the load, and got meager bonuses for it. And suddenly, looking at his embarrassed face, she thought: “Why not? Why is it always only ‘no’?”
— All right, Artyom. Come by. We’ll go to the movie, — and she smiled at him for the first time in many years.
From that evening they began to see each other. Artyom’s mother, Valentina, approved of her son’s choice, but cautiously:
— She’s a good girl, independent. Spirited. Only watch out—she might up and run off to the city to study. And what will you have then?
— Mom, I proposed! And she said yes! — Artyom beamed. — She just doesn’t want a big wedding, says it’s a waste of money. As for me, it’s fine—sign the papers and done. What do you think?
— Me? I’ve nothing against it. Get married.
The wedding happened anyway. Because in the village, there’s no other way. The whole community helped: they set tables in the club, and a lonely elderly neighbor, Evdokia—whom the young folks called Granny Dusya—sewed Alina a dress out of an old curtain, weaving white wildflowers into her hair. The bride was a sight to behold. And on the bride’s side sat Granny Dusya, whom Alina had begged to stand in for her own mother. The whole village celebrated; some brought pies, some pickles, and the bakery made a cake. It was noisy, crowded, and—surprisingly—joyful.
Alina still hoped to study by correspondence, but she quickly became pregnant. Artyom was against the studying: “A house needs a mistress, not a student.” They lived in her parents’ house. A daughter, Katya, was born. Alina plunged headlong into motherhood. Her mother-in-law helped little—she had her own farm.
Then an army buddy invited Artyom up north to the oil fields, promising mountains of gold. Artyom got fired up:
— Alina, I’m going! We’ll earn money—buy a car, all that! I’ll come back a hero!
He left for shifts, came back, brought money—not astronomical, but decent for the village. Alina saved it. But one day he didn’t return. He called, said there was too much work, he was delayed. He sent the money with that same Sasha. Sasha brought the envelope, smirking mysteriously and eyeing Alina greedily.
Artyom never came again. He’d found a replacement. He said so himself over the phone, his voice dull and faraway:
— Alina… You’ll have to manage somehow. I’ve… got another life here. I’m not coming back.
She cried at night, but the tears were less for love than for humiliation and pity for herself and little Katya. Then her mother-in-law turned away, too:
— If my Artyom dumped you, then you’re no kin of mine. Live as you like, — she tossed indifferently, not even glancing at her granddaughter.
Alina went to work as a salesclerk at the local shop. Katya was often sick; kindergarten became a problem. Sometimes Alina took her to work. Katya was a quiet, withdrawn child who could sit for hours in a corner behind the counter, playing with an old doll.
One day Granny Dusya came into the shop. She looked at the girl sitting on a crate from under the vegetables and shook her head:
— Alinushka, why are you dragging the child along with you?
— She’s a bit ill; can’t go to daycare. Nowhere to leave her, Granny Dusya.
— Katya, want to come visit me? — the old woman asked the girl gently. — We’ll play, go for a walk, feed the chickens.
Katya was four. She spoke clearly, without childish lisping, and was serious beyond her years. She looked carefully at her mother, at Granny Dusya, and nodded confidently:
— I’ll go. I’ll help.
— Granny Dusya, till evening? — Alina asked, surprised.
— Why not? It’s lonely by myself. My chores are simple—milk the goat, fetch some water. And with Katya it’s more cheerful.
From then on, that’s how it went. Evdokia lived alone; God hadn’t given her children, and all her unspent tenderness poured onto little Katya and her mother. In the evenings, when Alina came for her daughter, she tried to slip the old woman a little money, but the latter frowned sternly:
— Don’t be silly! This isn’t for money. It’s a joy to me. I’m alone, you’re alone. I know how hard it is without a shoulder to lean on. Consider me her second grandmother. And yours, too.
And so their odd, touching family took shape. After school, Katya ran not home but to Granny Dusya’s. The old woman fed her, listened to her stories, helped with homework. Alina treated the old woman like a blood relative: she bought medicine, brought water, cleaned the house. Granny Dusya doted on “her girls,” frying them fluffy fritters and baking cabbage pies. She became the anchor that kept Alina from drowning in despair.
Evdokia was handy at everything, especially knitting. She wrapped everyone from head to toe: socks, mittens with reindeer, downy shawls. Katya flaunted her outfits—the prettiest in the village. And the former mother-in-law, when she met Alina, only turned away in disdain, boasting at the shop that her son up north was “rolling in chocolate,” though he hadn’t come even once.
The pain of Artyom’s betrayal had long since scarred over. Life went on, full of concern for her daughter and Granny Dusya. One summer, she and Katya went for mushrooms, got lost, and unexpectedly came out into a clearing with an apiary. A sturdy house stood there, neat hives all around, and by the porch a shaggy dog lay on a chain. It barked when it saw strangers.
A man of about forty came out from behind the house, gray in his beard, in a work cap, limping slightly.
— Who’s there? Guests? — he called, and the dog fell silent at once.
— Hello, I think we’re lost. We’re from the village.
— Why, it’s Alina! And with your daughter! — the man’s face lit up with a smile. — Our shop clerk! Didn’t recognize me? I’m Grigory, your neighbor Anna’s brother.
— Grigory? — Alina peered at him. — Right! I haven’t seen you in seven years, since you…
— Since I buried my wife, — he finished without a trace of strain. — Well, it happens. Come in, we’ll have tea with honey. Your girl’s grown so big! How’s your Artyom on shift?
— He left us, — Alina exhaled, unexpectedly relieved. — When Katya was four. Found himself another up north.
— Then he’s a fool, God forgive me, — Grigory said, sincerely indignant. — A woman like you… And I see you’re not taking it too hard.
— Not anymore. Not at all.
He served them tea with fragrant, viscous honey right in the combs, gave them a jar to take with them, and asked that they pass some along to Granny Dusya, of whom Alina spoke with such warmth. He turned out to be surprisingly amiable and calm. He walked them to the path, his kind, intelligent eyes never leaving Alina.
A couple of days later he turned up not at Alina’s but straight at Granny Dusya’s. He didn’t want to compromise a woman in the village; he knew the gossip would start at once. Granny Dusya, a worldly-wise woman, grasped everything immediately. She treated him to tea, and Grigory brought honey again. Katya was sent at once to fetch her mother. He was a handy man; he immediately noticed the old woman’s porch had sagged.
— That won’t do, — he shook his head. — Next time I come, I’ll fix it.
Alina arrived, and Grigory seemed to brighten. They joked and laughed. After he left, Granny Dusya remarked wisely:
— He’s just the man you need. Solid. With a soul. And most importantly—he looks at you like a falcon.
Next time Grigory came in an old beat-up jeep with a whole arsenal of tools. He repaired the porch, straightened the gate. In the evening the three of them sat under the blooming bird cherry, drinking tea with his honey and her fritters.
— Granny Dusya, — Grigory said, — your honey with my fritters is pure music! I’ll be back for this pleasure. Right, Alina—good, isn’t it?
Time passed. Grigory didn’t circle around for long. One day, over yet another plate of fritters, he turned to Alina—right there in front of everyone, Granny Dusya and Katya—and took her hand.
— Alina, I’m not a man of fancy words. I’ve lived alone for a long time. And you’re alone. Let’s not be alone anymore. Let’s be a family. — He went down on one knee and took a small box with a simple gold ring from his pocket.
Katya clapped her hands and jumped up:
— Mom, say yes! Uncle Grisha is awesome!
Granny Dusya beamed, nodding, tears rolling down her wrinkled cheeks. Alina blushed, biting her lip, and then nodded, unable to get a word out. Where could she go, when her heart was splitting open with long-forgotten happiness?
In summer they lived at the apiary, in the thick aroma of honey and blooming linden; in winter they moved into Granny Dusya’s house—they couldn’t leave the old woman alone. Grigory built a spacious addition: a bright, cozy room for him and Alina, and a room for Katya. In Granny Dusya’s old part they redid the layout, making a large kitchen-living room where, in the evenings, everyone gathered around a big table, drank tea, and sang to the guitar, which Grigory, unexpectedly, played very well. That’s what it’s like when a true master appears in a home.
One deep autumn day, when the first frosts had silvered the withered grass, Artyom walked into Granny Dusya’s yard. Shuffling behind him, leaning on a cane, came his aged mother. Things hadn’t worked out up north; he hadn’t settled into the other family. He remembered he had somewhere his own, the one he had abandoned. Alina came out onto the porch, and behind her—Katya, grown tall and almost a stranger to him.
— Well, hello, wife… ex-wife, — he began uncertainly. — I’m back. Maybe we can forget the past? Come back to me. A child needs her own father, not some stranger.
— That’s right, — his mother chimed in, but without the old arrogance. — You were foolish, now make peace. You’ll live in your own house.
Katya, looking at the unfamiliar man, asked quietly:
— Mom, who is that?
— What do you mean, who?! — the old woman exploded. — I’m your grandmother! And this is your father!
Katya looked at her calmly and very politely, like a grown-up:
— I already have my own grandmother—Granny Dusya. And I have a dad—Uncle Grisha. He loves me, and I love him. He’s closer to me than the one who’s supposed to be. We’ve found ourselves good kin. We don’t need strangers.
— Just listen to her! Takes after her mother! — the former mother-in-law muttered. Artyom stood with his eyes down, not knowing what to say. His mother tugged at his sleeve:
— Let’s go. I told you so.
Alina finally found her voice:
— Good-bye. And don’t come here again. Grigory and I are happy.
They left, crestfallen and pitiful. And suddenly the yard felt bright and easy. Later, when Grigory came home, he was upset he’d missed it. But Alina, hugging him, thought that maybe it was for the best. Their true happiness needed no defense. It was quiet, strong, and as sweet as fresh honey from their own apiary. In the end, fate turned out to be a wise queen bee: it gathered them all into one sturdy, friendly hive where each found a place and a share of warmth.